Let The Bullets Fly
by wolfgirl16
Summary: .:Oneshot:. An alternate scenario dealing with the aftermath of the final battle with Sergei. Sergei/Wesker


**Let The Bullets Fly**

Disclaimer: I don't own anything except the fanfic and this is obvious because if I owned the RE franchise, you know each of Sergei and Wesker's encounters in Umbrella Chronicles would entail something of a highly naughty nature.

Summary: An alternate scenario dealing with the aftermath of the final battle with Sergei. Sergei/Wesker

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He was crazy with power, relentless. He wouldn't stop coming, attacking, but damn it, Wesker didn't want to retaliate. He had to live, though. He had to. There was no other choice.

The single, heavy tentacle that had once been two appendages slammed into the ground, the monster that possessed them writhing around as though in severe pain.

"No!" The monster, in a thick Russian accent mingled with an ungodly echo, roared. "We are not done yet!" An animalistic cry bellowed from his gullet before the rest of the creature came crashing down to the floor, the flesh of his body moving unnaturally, shifting.

Fingers once tightly embracing the handle of the gun loosened unconsciously, the weapon slipping from the limp grip and clattering with a metallic clang on the floor. Eyes of persimmon widened almost imperceptibly behind their shield of ebony translucence at the sight of the man-turned-monster smoothly reverting back to his God-given body, though the weeping wounds remained. The sight was truly a visual torture for Wesker.

"Dear God..." He said with a shaky exhale, not exactly sure of the man's current status. He was still; might he dead? A low groan answered his unasked question and immediately, he was at the Russian's side, taking him in his quivering arms as gingerly as he could so that he would not irritate the slapdash of bullet holes marring Sergei's nude form.

A bleary eye fluttered open, squinting at the blond until he came into focus. Chuckling weakly and lightheartedly, Sergei offered a miniscule smile.

"Well," He wheezed. "that was quite a fight. You're strong, comrade. Much stronger than I'd given you credit for."

"I was only lucky." Wesker sighed unevenly. "But next time, I doubt I would be so."

Sergei frowned. "Comrade...You know as well as I do that there isn't going to be a next time."

"Shut up," Wesker hissed. "You'll be fine. You'll make it..." He settled his cheek on top of Sergei's head, nestled in his soft grey hair. He fruitlessly repeated to the dying man that all would be well and he would pull through, though both of them knew it was absolute denial; bullshit at its finest.

"Comrade, don't. Please. Don't try and deceive yourself. It'll only ruin these last few moments."

The younger man cringed. Sergei was right.

Drawing back, Wesker looked the Russian in the eye, his face the utter epitome of sadness even with the sunglasses hindering the dying man's view of his eyes. Sergei raised an arm and limply grasped the shades between his digits to pull them off. Orange eyes shimmering and brimming with tears that threatened to spill over were revealed to him, causing him to set his brows together in concern. How long had he known Wesker? Quite a while, that was for certain, and not once had he seen the man express much of anything other than contentment and fury, though a lot of the time his face was in chicken scratch; simply unreadable.

Truthfully, he wasn't even certain prior to the current situation if the man was capable of producing tears. He'd rather he didn't know that he could.

Imploringly, Sergei said, "Comrade...don't cry. It doesn't suit you."

The words ironically caused the rivulets to spill down Wesker's cheeks and he laughed at his own physical show of weakness. He felt Sergei's hand - bloodied from his wounds and chilly as the life drained from him, yet warm where the thick red liquid was smeared - cup his cheek and his unobtrusive laughter morphed into choked sobs, each one leaving a terrible pang in his chest. He gripped the hand at his cheek as he clenched his jaw, wanting for the tears to cease and the truth to be not as bleak as it was laid out to be.

"Sergei, please..." He begged in between bouts of sobs. "Don't leave me...Don't leave me alone..."

"Come now...Dry your eyes." Slipping his hand from Wesker's death grip on it, he wiped at the moist trails descending down his face only to have more tears repave the path. "It doesn't make me feel any better, causing you to cry."

"What did you expect me to do? Rejoice?"

"No." Sergei paused, then groaned loudly as the pain grew worse within him. "Comrade, I don't have much time left..." The way he was speaking now, more hushed and feebly, reflected his diminishing life enough so that his statement wasn't even necessary, though he had to voice it, otherwise he knew that Wesker would still have some sort of faith left that he would rise again. He did not want to instill any sort of false hope into the black-clad man cradling him in his arms.

"No, don't...!" Wesker held him tighter, burying his face into disheveled grey locks. He croaked in a hoarse whisper, "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Sergei. Please forgive me..."

A brief chuckle left Sergei's lips, followed by a violent cough that sent droplets of dark blood spattering invisibly on the dark arm of Wesker's coat.

"You're forgiven." He said carefully, not wanting to rouse another bout of bloodied coughing.

Wesker pulled back, grimacing out of guilt rather than disgust at the rivers of red that ran at a zombie's pace down the dying man's chin.

The pain was lifting. Gradually but noticeably, Sergei could feel the brilliant sting and ache of his wounds, his whole body, evaporating along with his life. The end was near and he knew whatever else he needed to say or do, now was the time to get them out into the open.

"Comrade, I..." He began faintly, tilting his chin up and trying to make a pitiful attempt to raise his head. Wesker knew what he was wanting to do and helped by closing the rest of the distance between his and Sergei's lips himself, ignoring the pungent flavor of saccharine rust. Their lips mouthed against each other in a diligent leisure, keeping it slow like there was much more time left than they were actually presented with.

They only broke apart when Wesker felt the other set of lips go still and Sergei's head limply slouched back, left eye closed and now as useless as its right twin. Sobbing freely, an austere dirge from his throat, the blond clutched the corpse tightly to himself, his shoulders shaking vehemently as he noisily wept unheard apologies into a deaf ear.

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I couldn't think of a better title. Don't laugh! :[

Anyways, I REALLY wanted to write and post this, therefore I've temporarily broken my hiatus, though after this, I'm going right back to it.

I hope you guys liked it and if not, GO EAT SOMETHING HARD! Like...uh...I dunno, Krauser's head? But reviews are appreciated if you liked it. :D


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